


Abraca-WTF: A Useless Witch

by TricksterShi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Familiars, Fantasy, Gen, Magic, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterShi/pseuds/TricksterShi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magatha Pearl is a useless witch: she's of a magic bloodline and she knows she has it in her, but magic is just one more thing that's out of her reach, along with familial acceptance, a reliable car, and a significant raise.  At least until she tries to cast a spell and gets saddled with Rafe Madison, grumpy werewolf familiar, who is not content to accept the job the universe has given him.  Taking the advice of a more successful local witch, Magatha and Rafe journey deep into Kansas to find Deathwatch Owens, a wizard who may have the solution to their problem.</p><p>The only hitch in that logical plan?  Deathwatch Owens was just murdered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Unintended Guest

Magic runs in my family in varying degrees just like heart disease, bad decisions, and craziness. Personally, I think the craziness is just a side effect of everything else, but my mother never agreed.

“It’s the curse of our blood,” she would say, head angled high so she could stare down her nose at the very thought that one of the four family traits was anything less than a full blown attribute to be prized.

Craziness settled into my mother at an early age. That’s my theory and it’s yet to be disproved.

Anyway, back to the magic. I’m a late bloomer with it. My cousins were casting spells by the time they were ten, making toads pop out of toasters, levitating buckets of water over unsuspecting victims, turning chocolate milk into something I’m not gonna name because that was just too fucking traumatic, etc.

Don’t get me wrong, I tried to cast when I was their age. I gave myself headaches and nosebleeds for over a month one summer, fed up with the pranks and snide comments about my weak genetics.  Nothing more came of it than a general wooziness and a sense of shame and anger that led me to my most epic display of crazy: throwing all of my cousins’ favorite clothes, diaries, and baseball memorabilia onto a bonfire.  Then I glued all their porn stash materials to the outside of the house.  If the bonfire incident taught me anything, other than the immense satisfaction of petty revenge, it was that I could take comfort in the fact I was probably not adopted, because crazy like that is something you tend to inherit.

Then I left.  I caught the midnight bus to California, ran out of money by Kansas, and got a couple of jobs.

So here I am, a couple years down the road and legally an adult.  I work at a shitty diner flipping burgers and refraining from poisoning the general populace.  I still try to practice spells in my off hours, just on the chance a spark will catch, which is what brings us to Saturday night.  I tried to do a spell and, well, it sort of worked.

Except now there’s an unconscious dude in my tiny cockroach castle because he appeared in a flash of blue smoke and I might have hit him over the head with a baseball bat.  On closer inspection, the dude turns out to be Rafe Madison, semi-regular diner patron who never smiles and only orders his coffee bitter black with a side of plain eggs and toast.

Oops?

#

 

“What the hell did you do to me?”

Rafe is still inside the pentagram I’ve drawn on the floor with glow in the dark paint, which was the best way to hide it from the landlord.  Rafe sits up and rubs at the side of his head.  There’s a nasty looking knot forming there.

“Um. Wow. It  _worked_.” I stare down at my hands like an idiot, as if I could actually see the magic threading through my veins. I can’t.  I don’t even particularly feel any different, which is a let down.

On the other hand,  _I finally got my magic, yo!_

“What. Did. You. DO?”

Rafe wobbles to his feet and takes a step, only he comes up against the invisible barrier of the circle.  He hits it with a closed fists and lets out an honest to God growl.

His eyes flash an alarming unnatural shade of yellow.

I pull the bat a little tighter to me.

“Okay, whoa. Time out. What the hell are you?”

Even as I say it Rafe’s fingers lengthen into claws and he swipes at the barrier. He bares his teeth, a couple of which are now rather pointy fangs, and between blinks he’s come to sport Wolverine-esque mutton chops.

“A werewolf? Seriously?”

Rafe lets out another throaty growl.  The hair on my arms stands on end.

“Okay, first off, calm down, dude. This was not the regularly scheduled programming for tonight.”

“What have you-”

“I’m a witch.  Apparently.  You know, magic?  Um, I so was not intending for any company, though.  So.  Sorry for interrupting your evening, I sincerely apologize.”

I try to smile.   _No harm no foul_.  Rafe’s face does an exaggerated impression of his usual scowl.

No dice.

“Let me out of here,” he says.

He still has fangs and claws out.

“Yeah, no. You calm down first.”

Riley lets out a semi roar.  I flinch back and hope like hell old Mr. Tubbs has taken his hearing aids out for the night.

“Okay Growly McGrowlerson, I think we could all benefit in this situation by calming down a little bit.  Tea!  Tea sounds great.  I’m gonna go make some in the kitchen.  Right now.”

I take the baseball bat and go to the kitchen.  I close the door, calm and cool.  Then I sit down on the floor and have a quiet freak out.

 

#

 

I haven’t talked with anyone in the family but my mother since I set the bonfire and left. She knows I’m in Kansas, but not the town, so I haven’t seen anyone since then.  I may not have been able to perform magic, but I learned damn quick how to counteract spells.  A couple pouches of graveyard dirt, cinnamon, and crushed cat bones (I know, I know, eew) replenished every month keeps me below the radar.

She’s the first one I call once the panic attack stops.

“Daughter,” she greets, like she’s some high fancy old blood British matriarch.  Except Mom is Southern, so the drawl conflicts with that image.

“So, update, I can cast spells now,” I say, foregoing the regular social niceties, because there is still a definite edge of anxiety poking between my ribs, kind of like claws.

Silence.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, then.”

“Um, yeah, thanks. I have a more pressing matter at hand, though. I cast a spell and now there’s a local werewolf trapped inside my circle. I gave him some chamomile but it’s not having the desired effects and I think he still wants to slash me up and wear my insides as a tiara.”

Rafe turns and glowers at me.  Still, the tea cup is half empty. And he’s not roaring anymore, so small mercies.

A pained sigh comes over the line.

“At least it’s not a chimera. That happened to your aunt Charlotte.”

I scrunch my face up in thought.

“Are we talking aunt Charlotte in the psych ward because she can’t keep her clothes on or ancestor aunt Charlotte who was burned at the stake for trying to take over England with witchcraft?”

“The latter.”

Oh, of course.

“Okay.  Why is there a werewolf in my circle?  I was not casting any kind of summoning.  I tried to multiply my last slice of pizza so I wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping tomorrow.”

“A witch’s first spell always attracts a familiar to their side to help them with their magic,” Mom says.  “It is a time honored tradition and mystical connection for a witch-“

“I don’t remember unexpected guys or girls popping into existence around Miles or Gwen.”

Mom sighs again.  It’s always been her thing, and it grates like sandpaper.

“That’s because Miles got an iguana and Gwen got a lazy barn cat. The shape of the familiar directly correlates to the power and path a person’s magic is going to take them.” Mom pauses for a moment.  “Looks like you still don’t do anything by halves.”

“Yeah, no, I’m still me,” I say, because I really have nothing else to add to that.

“Let the poor thing out of the circle, Magatha.  What’s done is done.  Now it’s up to both of you to figure out how to work together.”

“He’s gonna eat me as soon as I do that.”

“He is sitting right here and can hear every word you say,” Rafe grits out.  It’s lispy going through his fangs, which would be kind of funny if circumstances were non-panic inducing.

“He’s not going to eat you,” Mom scoffs.

“Right, because you’re a thousand miles away and not in the same room as Cujo.”  I blow out a breath and close my eyes.  “So, what do I do after I let him out?”

“You could spring for an apology steak, rare.  That might go a long way.”

“I was trying to multiply pizza, Mom.  That should tell you something about my funds, specifically lack of.  Anyway, how do I un-familiarize him?”

Mom laughs.  I really hate it when she does that.  She only laughs with that certain lilt when something is at my expense.

“There’s no severing the witch-familiar bond, Magatha.”  I can picture Mom rolling her eyes and still looking smug.  “You two are stuck together.  So I suggest you treat it like any other relationship.  Just remember, it’s all trial and error.”

She’s still laughing when she hangs up.

Bitch.

Rafe and I look at each other in silence.  Honest to God crickets start chirping outside the window.

“All right.  I’m gonna let you out of the circle, okay?  Do I have your word you’re not gonna shishkabob me?”

“I swear,” he says through his teeth.

I eyeball him for a minute, because that is the least sincere sounding promise I’ve ever heard, and I’ve made a few.  I can’t fault the guy, though.  I’d be pretty pissed if I was snatched from my evening routine, too.

Thank god he wasn’t masturbating at the time.  That would have been awkward.

“Sorry about the head, by the way,” I say in a rush.  I do not need those kinds of thoughts right now.  ”Like I said, I was hoping for an extra pizza.  Not a were.”

Rafe says nothing while I go around deactivating the circle.  Once the last bit is undone I step back and watch.  The bat is still within reach, but it seems a little rude to pick it up after apologizing for the bump on his head.

Rafe takes a cautious step over the barrier, then relaxes a fraction and steps out all the way.

“You,” he points with a still clawed finger.  ”Stay the hell away from me.”

Rafe stomps out of the front door, letting it slam closed behind him.  There’s an annoyed shout from Mr. Tubbs- “Damn fool hooligans!” – and then silence.

Gripe, the fat, old, one-eyed tabby that came with my apartment, slinks out from under the sagging sofa and sits beside my bat.  Gripe takes in the entire scene, nonchalant, and starts licking his paw.

“You are an asshole,” I tell Gripe.  ”Abandoning me when the world goes crazy.  Why couldn’t you have been my familiar?  You two have the same personality, right down to the claws.”

Gripe does not give a shit, but that’s the way it goes with cats.


	2. A Ride Around the Hawaiian Carousel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For witchy problems the best source of information to seek out is, indeed, another witch.

I throw out the remaining pizza crusts and wash the few dishes I have.  Then I dust.  Then I vacuum and wash the blinds.  Finally, I brave cleaning the bathroom and tackle the floor-drobe monster growing in the corner of my room.

I’m too wired to sleep.  Definitely shaken and much too awake to watch mindless television, which is a damn tragedy.

I can do magic.  I  _am_  magic.  Elation and pant shitting terror race after each other through my veins and do the conga up my spine.

I’m a witch.  Fully and finally.

Holy shit.  I am a  _witch_  and I have no fucking clue what to do.

Growing up I’d become a close bedfellow with jealousy, watching my cousins discover magic, learn to shape it with spells for their endless entertainment, and garner acceptance from the family and witch community at large.  Even in the beginning it looked effortless to me.  They had that way about them that children do, giggling and twisting around, reaching for ideas and opportunities easy as pie.  I never noticed their familiar additions, too busy caught up with the green-eyed monster slathering over their abilities.  They did live on a farm, though, so it’s not like an extra animal or two were newsworthy.

And I get stuck with a pissy werewolf, who is now stomping his way home.

Somewhere, someone in charge of pulling the strings is laughing their ass off at me.  I wish that feeling was not as familiar as it is.

Heh.  Familiar.  See what I did, there?

Oh.  Yeah.

Midnight rolls around and I force myself into bed.  I have an early shift in the morning at the diner with my boss, Wanda.  There is never any skipping unless deathly ill, because Wanda will send one of her five kids round to check.  I found that out the hard way.

The red numbers on the digital clock mock me from across the room.  I turn on my side and tuck my hands up under my pillow.

Tick-tock.

I pull them back out and hold my hands above me.  I wiggle my fingers.

“I have magic.”

Wiggle, wiggle.

I turn on my other side and sigh into the comforter.

Balls.

I’m just about to drift off when someone starts pounding on my door.  I shimmy into some shorts and grab my bat along the way.  I sneak up on the door and peer through the peephole on the door.  The image is distorted and blurry.

“Open up, I know you’re in there,” Rafe growls.

“You said you never wanted to see me again,” I remind him, hand hesitating on the door.

“I don’t, but I can’t get past the end of the block without throwing up my insides and wanting to die and now it’s raining.”  He pauses.  “Open the damn door.  Your neighbor is going for a shotgun.”

I unlock the deadbolt.  Mom always said I’d let an ax murderer in if they asked nicely enough.  My death will then surely come as no surprise.

“Mr. Tubbs has Alzheimer’s and cataracts, so even if he remembers where the shells are he can’t see well enough to hit anything vital.”

“You need to figure out how to take this damn spell off me,” Rafe says, ignoring that.  He is pretty soaked.  He shrugs out of his jacket and looks around, frowning.  He spots my glorified coat rack (read: single nail, crooked) and flicks my jacket onto the floor and hangs his up instead.  “I felt like my insides were trying to eat themselves.  Doesn’t matter which route I take, I can’t get farther than a block, so undo this.  Right now.”

“Dude, I don’t even know what I did to make you happen.”  I gesture at him.  “All I wanted was pizza.”

“Then look it up in a book or call someone else, just find a way to get me back to normal.  I want to go home.”

“I thought I was a dud before tonight.  What, do you think I can just snap my fingers and reverse it?”

Rafe advances on me, eyes and mouth puckered like an angry butt hole.

“You’re going to damn well try,” he says, and there’s a bit of fang glinting behind his lips.

I throw my hands in the air.

“You know what?  Fine.   _Fine._ Get your ass back in the circle and I’ll do my best.  If I blow up the entire fucking block, I will come back as a pasty white ghost and tell everyone you made me do it.”

 

#

 

Spoiler: I did not blow the block up.

Medium spoiler: just my crappy ass TV.

Mini spoiler: I could not de-familiarize Rafe.  My mother was right, shocker.

 

#

 

Rafe wakes up at five to go with me to the diner.  Our eyes are blood shot.  I feel like death, he looks it.

Wanda raises her tattooed eyebrow at us when we stumble through the doors.

“Gave him a ride,” I yawn and make my way back to the kitchen more by feel than sight.

“What happened to that fancy rig of yours, hm?” Wanda asks Rafe.

“It’s, um.”  Rafe blinks, expression panicky and blank.

“In the shop.  Idiot ran into a ditch.”

Rafe glares at me.  I smile back, just refraining from flipping him off.

Serves him right, the fucker.

“Well, ain’t that a thing.”

The morning shift passes by in a haze of hot coffee, greasy fingers, and shooting pains that travel up my calves and thighs and right to my spine.  I need new shoes, but that’s not happening for another couple months with my budget.

Rafe lurks at his usual table, nursing coffee, picking at plain eggs and toast.  He pulls his phone out and starts working on it, just like usual.  I’m too tired to even contemplate what he’s doing.  Maybe hiring a hit man to take me out, remove the bond.  That seems to fit with his general personality.

Rafe glares my way like he can read my mind.

Shit,  can werewolves read minds?  If so, that is just wildly unfair.

My shift ends just after the lunch rush.  I gather my purse and pull a sweater over my ketchup smeared blouse.  Looks like another laundry night, courtesy of a couple brats in Barbie shirts getting enthusiastic with the condiment packets.

Rafe stows his shit, follows me out, and opens his mouth.  I hold up a hand.

“Just don’t right now, okay?  I need a shower and I need some macaroni, and then we will go see someone who might have some insight.”

To my surprise Rafe actually listens.  He says nothing on the way back to my apartment.  I consider that a definite win.

He’s still on his quiet streak when I’m done and we are back in my crappy car and heading across town.  Rafe’s face does this expression, all wrinkled forehead and squinty eyes, when we roll up on Fontaine Boulevard, and then The Mystic Bar.

“Are you serious?  This place attracts every wannabe freak and vampire groupie this side of Lawrence.”

“Where else in the podunk town do you expect to find any help on this kind of problem?”

“Uh, somewhere with sober people?  Or people who don’t take Twilight and True Blood as valid life choices?”

“Hey, show some respect.  These are good people that might have an answer to our problem.  Don’t piss them off.”

Okay, so I may have been laying that on kind of thick, but attitude would get us nowhere with these people, especially Big Ma.

The inside of the Mystic looks like most other bars.  There’s dim light, flashing neon, tables that haven’t seen a good wash since the Reagan administration, and shitty beer on tap.  Unlike most other bars the signs of witchcraft are, literally, all over the walls.  Runes, symbols, bindings, protection, cockroach repellent, everything pertinent to keeping the bar a safe haven for the clientele, plus an everlasting lemon fresh scent.

At this time of day patrons are just starting to filter in from work.  The Foaley Brothers are setting up sound equipment for the night’s entertainment.  Earl, a big guy with tattoos and piercings out the wazoo, lines up glasses and pulls liquor for the shift.  Big Ma herself sits behind the bar, a frumpy old barn owl perched above her head, and dishes up her signature Hawaiian Carousels, guaranteed to give you a spin you’ll never forget.  She only makes fifty at the opening of the night, so it draws big crowds fighting to get one before they’re gone.

I feel stupid, now, realizing that the owl is her familiar.  To be fair, I’ve only met her a few times at the Witchery Support Group.  I just thought she rode in on the Harry Potter craze and decided to keep the image.

“You an early bird, child.”

Big Ma lives up to her name.  She’s a good four hundred pounds, stands about 5’10, and dresses in colorful muumuus and flip flops.  She claims she grew up in Hawaii and never quite shook the island style, but she talks like deep south and has an attitude to match.

“Well, I have a bit of a problem, I was wondering if you might could help.”

Big Ma glances up and down at Rafe.

“That is the opposite of a problem, unless he bein’ an asshole.  If he ain’t, hell, take him for a spin or two.  Problem should resolve itself.”

I grimace.  Rafe let out a noise somewhere in the neighborhood of a growl and a choke.  He choked on a growl.  Oh man, I wished I had the stones to turn and see his face.

Claws.  He has claws and teeth and temper, remember that, Magatha.

“Um, no, that’s-  That’s not the kind of problem we have.  See, I was practicing some spell work last night.”

I lay out everything that happened, in excruciating detail.  When I’m done, Rafe adds his bit, albeit with a snappy tone and glowing eyes.  Big Ma continues to line up Hawaiian Carousels, nodding along.

“Well, what’cha mama said is true.  When a witch comes into her powers you get a familiar.  That’s how I came by Duncan.”

Big Ma tosses up a bit of thin, seared meat.  Duncan snaps it out of the air with a disgruntled hoot.

“Witches need their familiars to survive magic.  Ain’t no way around it.  As to how they get chosen for one another, I can’t help you there.  I ain’t a bloodliner, I’m a freestyle.”

My shoulders slump.

“Oh, well, that sucks then.”

“Does someone want to explain for those of us not in the same class?” Rafe grunts.

“There are two types of witches, bloodliners like me, and freestyles like Big Ma.  Magic runs in my family line, hence the name, but you can choose to become a witch, it just takes a lot of study, perseverance, and some hidden talent.  Some people call that freestyle.”

Rafe wrinkles his entire forehead.

“Why would anyone choose to become a witch in the first place?”

He looks at me, and I wouldn’t quite call it mind reading, but I have a good idea of what he is thinking.  The supernatural community tends to view us as fairy tale villains thanks to assholes like the Brother’s Grimm and religious misinformation.  It’s a hard rep to shake, although good old Mrs. Rowling has done her part to turn the tide.

Rafe sees me as a stupid child playing with fire and destined for green skin and Wicked Witch of the West notoriety.

I’m kind of flattered about the last bit.

“I worked in retail for twelve years,” says Big Ma.

That pulls Rafe up short.

“…Retail?”

Big Ma levels Rafe with such a look of unimpressment to retort against his sneery, snooty, whole  _thing_  going on with his face.

“Twelve years of dealing with that was enough for me.  I could have become a mass murderer, but hexes are cleaner.  You work a year of two in retail, you’ll see.”

Rafe mutters something under his breath.  I ignore him.

“So there’s no way you know of to sever this tie we have?  None at all?”

“No, child, not that I’m aware.  I’ve been plenty satisfied with Duncan’s service, never saw the need to trade in.”

I slump down in my seat at the bar.  Well, shit.  I don’t have to look at Rafe to know he was about to blow a gasket.  Secretly, deep down, I still feel kind of in awe and excited about all of this.  But then I look at Rafe and, well.  I get why he’s angry.  Hell, I would be, too, because this is probably the closest to slavery that you can get, now that I think about the implications.  My stomach squirms and I ball my hands up, almost like I can hide the guilty digits that started messing with the spell casting.

Rafe glances my way.  I have a moment of terror- please, do not let this mind reading stuff go both ways- and then Big Ma pulls a pen out of her muumuu pocket.

“Tell you what.  There might be somebody who can help you.  You buy the first two Carousels and I’ll give you an address.”

“How about you just hand over the address and screw the drinks?”

Rafe pushes up to the bar, eyes glowing intense and claws coming out of his fingers.  In a blink he is laid out on the floor, a giant red mark across his face like he was bitch slapped.

“Whoa,” I say.  “You have gotta show me how you did that.”  That would come in so handy for the assholes that try and cop a feel when I make coffee rounds.

“I’m a business woman, hot shot.  Ain’t nobody gettin’ anywhere for free.”

I toss a wad of bills from my tips on the counter.

“Thank you, Big Ma.”

I drink one down in one gulp.  Fiery sweetness claws down my throat like a citrus-y demon in a lei.  I shiver and sputter, but it stays down.

The room spins around a couple times.  Yee haw.

“Go on, drink up,” Big Ma pushes the other glass towards Rafe, challenge clear.

Rafe looks like he’d rather peel her face off.

I put my hand on his arm, well aware I could probably lose it.

“Come on, just drink.  It’s pretty good.”

To my unending surprise, Rafe does just that.  He swallows it better than I did, doesn’t even flinch.  Then he slams the glass down on the bar and his lips purse into a thin line.

“Wonderful mix,” I say.

Rafe gives a curt, reluctant nod.

Big Ma beams.

“Thank you.  His name is Deathwatch Owens, he lives out in the middle of nowhere at the end of Route 9.”

“Deathwatch Owens?  Why is he called that?”

“With a name like that, you think I’m gonna ask questions?”

Well, okay, I can concede to that point.

“Anyway, he likes to keep to himself, lives off the grid, so he don’t have no phone or anything like that.  He’s a bit kooky in the head,” Big Ma twirls her finger next to her ear.  “But he been around a while, he knows magic.”

She writes down directions on a cocktail napkin and slides it over.  Yay, I think, dour.  Road trip with Mr. Grumpy-britches.

“Do you think he’ll take our visit without, uh, living up to his name?”

Big Ma shrugs.

“He likes oranges and chili dogs.  Wouldn’t hurt to bring a peace offering.”

“Thank you so much, I-  _we_  really appreciate this.”

I elbow Rafe when he stays silent.  He steps on my foot.  I pinch his arm.

“Thank you,” he grates out.

I smile big and we leave past the first wave of customers that flood through the doors.  When we reach the cracked sidewalk, Rafe whirls on me and points his finger right in my face.

“Don’t you ever poke at me again.”

“Try being a bit nicer, ass wipe.  You were talking to a witch in there, on her own turf.  She could have creamed you into kibble.”

Heh, dog joke.  Oh man, so many possibilities, so little time.

“Let me see the address.”

He grabs the paper from my hand before I can say anything.

“I know how to get there,” he says.  “It’s about five hours south.”

“Well, my car will never make it.”

The rusty junk heap barely manages the six blocks to and from the diner on a good day.  I have to walk about half of the time thanks to faulty spark plugs, an old motor, bald tires, etc.  It’s always something.

“Good thing I have my own.  Come on, let’s go.”


	3. Deathwatch Owens

Riley lives on the nice side of town in a small two bedroom house- an actual house!- with a fenced yard and petunias lining the sidewalk.

“Wow, some lair.”

Rafe doesn’t answer.  I follow him inside.  The living room is sparse, with just a recliner, a table, and a small TV while a couple of generic landscape pictures hang on the lilac walls.

“Don’t touch anything,” he says over his shoulder, and disappears down a hallway.

I tuck my hands into my pockets because they are notorious for disobeying, and go ahead and snoop around while not actually disturbing anything.  Hey, leave me alone to my own and I have to poke at things, it’s just my nature.

The kitchen is about the same as the living room.  No table, but there is a bar with a plate of half eaten lasagna and a warm beer sitting on top.  Looks like I interrupted his dinner last night.  I glance down the hall and then toe the refrigerator door open with my foot- not technically touching- and find that Rafe is very much a bachelor.  An open can of olives, a plastic bowl of fried chicken drumsticks, and something in a bloated baggie that is evolving its own ecosystem takes up one shelf.

Back in the living room I find a really nice Mac laptop and a stack of books beside the recliner.  Lao Tzu, Confucius, Margaret Atwood, and John Green.

Okay, then.

I stand in the middle of the room and do a slow turn.  Rafe comes back in with a bag over his shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out how you can stay in this place and not go crazier,” I say honestly.  “I get that a minimalist lifestyle is a zen trend and all that, but dude, this is taking it a bit far.”

“I’m not taking advice on decor from a witch with mold in her shower and magazine cut outs from  _People_  on her wall.”

“They have good photos of the beach.”

“Whatever.”

Rafe owns a nice Chevy extended cab truck with heated seats and so much leg room I almost want to cry.  We stop by my place first.  I shove some clothes in a bag and leave a bowl of food for Gripe, who is nowhere to be seen.  I call for him, but get no response.

“Fine, you asshole.  There’s food on the counter.  Do not have a frat party while I’m gone.  The mice next door are food, not friends.”

Next stop is the gas station for snacks and offerings to appease the mysterious Deathwatch Owens.

“You buy,” I say.  “I just blew this week’s grocery money on some really awesome drinks.  I think I’m still drunk.”

The alcohol threads through my blood, all warm and happy.  It’s probably my imagination, but the sun feels warmer, more exotic than the usual Kansas sunshine.  When I close my eyes I almost hear waves in the distance.

“Fine,” Rafe grates out.  He leaves.  The door slams behind him, but I couldn’t care less.  I am out for the count and never hear him come back.

 

#

 

I always know when I’m dreaming.  The colors are brighter, landscape shifts into different shapes with every step, and, usually, I can fly.  As a child, my dreams made me feel powerful and awesome in ways where I fell short in the waking world.

Whatever Big Ma put in those drinks follows me down.  I go to sleep in the truck and dream-wake in a bright purple floating hammock.  The sky swirls around like a Van Gogh and chihuahuas through the water like fish.

I don’t claim to understand my sub conscious.

I get out of the hammock and float over the water and chihuahuas to shore where a figure is waiting.  The figure starts out blurry and then clears into my mother.

The vicious sinking feeling in my chest as my heart plummets to my stomach cuts through the warm hazy glow of the alcohol.

“You’re not welcome here, Mom.”

Mom kicks her penny loafer at a bit of sand.  The disgust is clear on her face.

“Yes, well, you weren’t answering your phone, Magatha.  When I couldn’t get a hold of you after such a revelation I got worried.”

“Worried?”

“Of course.  We may have our differences, but I do care about you, daughter.”

I sigh and roll my eyes.  Not very adult, but Mom has a way of bringing out the petulant teenager in my with a mere look and well-placed sniff of disdain..

“Okay, well, thank you for the concern, but I am capable of taking care of myself.  I’m on my way to figuring out my problem right now, so, thanks for the visit.  Feel free to vacate my head.  Right now.”

Warm rain and giant red flowers start falling from the sky.  I don’t get drenched.  Mom does.

“Very mature,” she lifts an arm and shakes her sleeve.  “I’ve made a formal announcement to the family.  I expect you to come home so you can be officially inducted into our society.”

The last of the warm and fuzzies squelch out of existence.

“No,” I say.

Mom arches an eyebrow.  “Yes, you will.  It’s tradition for our family.”

“Yeah, the same tradition that let everyone bully me because they thought I was a dud.  No thanks.”

“Stop being so dramatic, it wasn’t that bad.”

Except that, yes, it was, but I can’t get the words out to tell her that, because she never listened before.  I made myself sick trying to cast spells so I could fit in, nosebleeds and vomit and headaches galore.  I hid from family functions because there was always someone who liked to poke at me and ask, “Haven’t you gotten the spark yet?” in front of everyone so that their eyes landed on me and my flaming shame and embarrassment.

I wave my hand and Mom disappears from the beach while thunder rumbles overhead.  Then it honks.

I jerk awake and the truck is rolling down blacktop past waving fields of golden wheat.

“Nice dream?” Riley grunts, uninterested.

“Always,” I lie.

I sit up, rub at my wet eyes.  The sun is about to set.

“How much longer?”

“About three hours.”

“Great.  Let’s get some music up in this joint.”

I reach for the dial knob.  Rafe smacks my hand away.

“Okay, let’s get something straight.  This is my truck, okay?  My space.  You do not mess with the things in my space.”

I hold up my hands.

“Fine, fine.  Oh, disgruntled werewolf, can you please choose a station so I don’t get bored and begin experimenting with spells?  I mean, it only worked out so well last time and I didn’t bring anything else to entertain me.  I get bored so easy.  ADHAD, you know.”

“It’s ADHD, dumb ass.”

I wave a dismissive hand.

“Yeah, that one.”

Rafe looks between me and the road and we have a semi-staring contest.  I don’t blink and Rafe really doesn’t stand a chance.  I’ve practiced this with Gripe over the last bit of leftovers for the past two years.  After a minute he flicks the radio on and chooses something with soft rock.

“Thank you, you are very kind, good sir.”

Rafe tightens his knuckles on the steering wheel.

Oh yeah, the next three hours are gonna be just  _awesome._

 

#

 

It’s near midnight when we finally reach the address of Deathwatch Owens.  His house is tucked away in a lone copse of trees at the end of a maze of back roads.  The radio fizzes out as soon as we cross onto the property

“Well, that’s ominous.”

“Shut up.”

The house is not so much a house as it is a series of rundown connected shacks.  Past the trees the property looks like a transplant from the English countryside.  Grass that green does not survive in this part of Kansas, not without tons of water and an astronomical water bill, but it is there all spread out and healthy among a wide array of plant life ranging from jungle ferns to garden variety petunias.

The house is dark, although that’s not a surprise.  There are glowing globes, though.  They hang in the tree branches and give off a soft light.

“This feels weird,” Rafe says.

“We’re standing in a magically induced green house experiment owned by someone named Deathwatch Owens.  Of course it feels weird.”

Rafe rolls his window down and takes a deep sniff.

I clamp my teeth down over the automatic bloodhound joke.

“Look, we should wait until the morning.  He’s probably asleep.”

“Well, he’s about to wake up, isn’t he?”

I roll my eyes.

“Dude, did you learn nothing from Big Ma?  It is not wise to piss off people with large amounts of magic, even if we come bearing gifts.”  I rattle the grocery bag of oranges and chili dog fixings.  I’m tempted to eat it, the peanuts and jerky faded two long county roads ago.

“At this point not much else can go wrong with my life, okay?  I did nothing to you, and yet here we are.”

“I already told you, all I wanted last night was a bit more pizza, not a mystical magic bond with a strange werewolf.”  I pause.  “Thanks, though.”

“For what?”

“For implying I’m a magical badass.”

“You are not a magical badass.”

“You already implied I was.  No take backs.”

“What are you, twelve?”

I shrug.  We get out of the car.

“Are there going to be any booby traps here?”

I raise my eyebrow and gesture around.

“I would be infinitely surprised if there aren’t any booby traps.”

“Just- just stop talking.  You’re making me angry again.”

“I thought that was your default setting, hound dog .”

Rafe clenches his fists.  I see hints of claws.

Right.  Shut up time.

We get out of the truck and make our way over an uneven stone walkway.  It’s cobblestone, I realize, just like out of an old Sherlock Holmes movie.  Wind whispers through the tree branches.  Then I realize the wind is  _actually_  whispering, as in voices.

“Wait.”

I tilt my head to the side and concentrate.

_Welcome, visitors.  Who are you?_

Huh.  Incorporeal guest screening.  Neato.

“My name is Magatha Pearl, and this is Rafe Madison,” I say.

“What are you doing?  Shh,” says Rafe.

He puts a hand over my mouth.  Stupid move, because of course I lick his palm.  Salty.

“Eugh!” Rafe jerks his hand away.  “You are mentally impaired, you know that?”

I spit and clear my throat.

“We’re here to visit with Deathwatch Owens.”

_Deathwatch Owens sleeps._

“Yes, and I do apologize for the late hour.  Would you mind waking him up for us?  It’s urgent, unfortunately.”

_Deathwatch Owens sleeps._

“Okay then.”

The wind quiets down.  Nothing else happens.  Crickets chirp.

“The wind is being unhelpful.  I guess we can try knocking.”

If Rafe rolls his eyes any harder they are going to pop right out of his head.

We make it to the front door without any problems, which makes me kind of twitchy.  Paranoia does not run in my family, but that is probably down to the fact that we lived in an enclosed witches colony and everyone knew everybody else and their business.  We never had the need for severe measures of secrecy and security, but once I left home I learned a couple of things.

One, solo witches tend to use extreme measures in almost everything they do, if only for the purpose of making sure they never get arrested on trumped up charges.  People not in the know tend to get a little judgmental when they come across blood rituals.

Two, if someone takes the effort to remove themselves from society at large, 99.999999999% of the time they don’t want to be bothered.  And they get tetchy about it, like Mr. Tubbs.

“If I get turned into a frog or a lizard because of you I will not be happy,” I say.

“I’m already not happy with you so I could leave  _you_  as an offering and call it even.”

Rafe pounds on the door.  It swings open on its own with a long and eerie squeak.  Then falls off its hinges.

“Dude,” I say.

“It was already open,” Rafe says.

He lifts his head and drags in a long sniff.

“There’s a dead body in there.”

Rafe moves into the darkened house, still sniffing and picking his way around furniture.

“And he walks right in, because of course that’s his first natural instinct when there’s a corpse.  Uncultured flea-“

“I can still hear you.”

The wind picks up again.  I can’t pick out individual words, but it feels hostile.  I step into the house and feel around for the light switch.  It clicks up and down, but nothing else happens.

“No power,” I call out.

“Found the body,” Rafe calls back.

I stumble my way to him, shins finding every low corner in the room.  Rafe is beyond the next doorway.  Shafts of light from the trees filter in through a broken window.  Rafe crouches over the still form.

I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies.  Or, pretend dead bodies.  I watch a lot of late night cop dramas and I usually take a job at the Fun House every October to make ends meet.  This body looks disturbingly like some of the high end makeup jobs done on the vamp guys.  The face is pale and waxy, eyes glassy.  The man’s hands are folded over his chest just so, and everything from his stomach downward is missing.

No, seriously.  Something looks to have ripped this dude clean in two.  There is a massive red stain that makes the room smell like a jar of warm pennies, and there is a severe lack of legs.

“I am never eating anything ever again,” I say, faint.

“He was killed by another werewolf,” Rafe says.  He looks a little pale himself, but he’s up and moving around the room, sniffing and touching things.  “Poor bastard never saw it coming.”

“No, I didn’t.  It was quite a surprise,” a new voice says just behind my shoulder.

I shriek and bolt.  I trip right over the body and, oh God, my hand lands right in the pool of tacky cold blood.  Eew, eew.

Rafe roars and jumps forward, claws out.  He swipes at the man, but his entire hand goes clean through.

The new arrival blinks behind his horn rim glasses and shuffles soundlessly on the floor.  He’s a dead ringer (the puns have got to stop, I know, I know) for the body on the floor.  And he’s floating about six inches off the ground.

“Well, heh.  That definitely didn’t hurt the second time around.”


	4. Parting Ways and Free Steak

The ghost, to no one’s surprise, is Deathwatch Owens.

“Silly name, I know.  I collected deathwatch beetles as a child and one thing led to another and the name stuck.  Would have grown out of it, but my mother, rest her soul, wanted the family name to be cemented in history forever.  She wasn’t very specific when she was casting that particular spell, though, so here we are.”

Deathwatch Owens smiles and twiddles his thumbs while Rafe and I sit around the kitchen table.  He is - was?- a portly short man with round everything, like a scholarly Santa Claus.  And now, as a ghost, he is a portly short man with round everything dressed in a fluffy bath robe.

“Do you know who killed you?” Rafe asked.

“Yes.  He was a werewolf, as you already surmised.  Surprised me on my way out of the bath.  I suppose I should be glad I wasn’t naked at the time, but I still feel fairly undignified, being a ghost in nothing but a robe.”

“It’s a very nice robe,” I offer.

“Thank you, dear.  I got it on sale before I turned hermit.  It’s very soft.”

“Do you know why the werewolf killed you?  Usually we don’t do something like that,” Rafe points his thumb over his shoulder to Deathwatch’s still cooling corpse.  “Unless we’re highly pissed off about territory or a blood feud.”

“Honestly, I’ve never met the wolf in my life.  I don’t really get out much and I’ve been living here for almost nine years now.  Bought the land from a lovely woman who calls herself Big Mum.  Are you two looking for the wolf?  Because if you are, he left about an hour ago with my legs after he got a phone call.”

“Why would he take your legs?” I ask, still nauseated at the thought.

“No clue, I found it a bit odd myself once I crossed over and could think clearly again.  He was an edgy fellow, very angry throughout the entire ordeal.  He bagged them up, rifled through my research papers, and then he left.”

Rafe says nothing more, but he’s got a constipated look, so he must be thinking through something.

“You don’t seem too broken up about dying, if you don’t mind me saying so,” I say.

“Ah, well, life is impermanent, dear.  Besides, I started researching life after death when I was about your age.  Conducted all sorts of experiments before I found my true passion, so while it was fairly traumatic, I am learning so much by being dead.  It’s a real eye opener.”

I stifle a laugh.

Rafe blinks and his expression shifts into something I dub Confused Puppy Face.

“We’ll take your word on that.”

“Anyway, that’s everything I can tell you about my death.  Why did you come to see me, anyway?  I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Well, Big Ma gave us your name and said you might be able to help with a problem we have.”

So I launch into the explanation of the last day.  It feels like two years.  Deathwatch Owens is attentive and curious, nodding his incorporeal head along with the story.

“Well, I completely understand how that was traumatic for the both of you.  My own familiar binding was less than normal, if I say so.”

“Where is your familiar?” I ask.

“Oh, Miranda.  She was a water nymph, beautiful creature.  It wasn’t a bad relationship while we were in England, but moving around was hard on her, especially when my research brought us here.  I tried to make it work, even imported a large tank and made an artificial river, but, well.  Nothing can compare to the real thing.  The werewolf killed her, as well.  He took her body as well as my legs.”

Deathwatch’s face dims with sadness at this point.

Rafe goes tense next to me and I sense dangerous territory, so I lean forward.

“Well, Big Ma seemed to think you might be able to help us sever this bond we have.  Neither of us wants it to each other and it’s pretty unfair.”

The smile on Deathwatch’s face fades to a frown.

“Oh dear.  Well, while I can help you shape the bond so it’s more convenient, severing it is, unfortunately, out of the question, unless the familiar dies, like my Miranda.”

Rafe growls a warning.

Deathwatch, being dead, is unaffected.

“You see, every witch needs a familiar with a matching level of power and drive.  The universe chooses your opposite and equal, much like the yin and yang, if you’re familiar with that.  The universe does not make mistakes, and trying to alter one of its decisions, well.  You’ll have better luck trying to unravel time.”

Rafe snarls and gets to his feet.  He paces around the kitchen.

“There has to be a way, or someone out there who has at least experimented with the idea.  I have no intention of being saddled with some hair brained witch who tries to multiply pizza because she’s too damned lazy to go to the store-“

“Hey, I am not lazy, asshat,” I say, stung.  “You try living on minimum wage from two bottom feeder jobs to make ends meet when your car only works every blue moon.”

“I have a life, okay?  An actual, fulfilling life, and I have plans that do not involve newbie witches in any form.”

Something ugly and sharp twists up in my gut and floods my head.  How dare he.  This asshole keeps blaming me for everything, when I have no control over any of it, and despite my complete willingness to help his ungrateful furry ass.

I stand up.  The chair topples over behind me.

“This is not my fault.  I didn’t want you, I did not ask for you, and by the time we get any of this figured out, I’m going to have to go job hunting again because I’m missing my shift at the Boot Barn, so I’m probably fired.”

Somehow we end up in each other’s faces.  I poke him, Rafe pokes me, and there’s a weird whining noise in the back of my head like a kettle on the stove.  Rafe snarls and I snarl back, then there is a weird pop and the sensation of pressure release.

“Then just go, get out of here.  Go as far away from me as you can and leave me the hell alone!” I end up shouting.

To my surprise, he does.  Rafe turns on heel, stalks out of the house, and a moment later the truck engine revs up.

“Well, that’s one way to solve part of the problem,” Deathwatch Owens observes as I catch my breath.

“What just happened?”

“You gave him a direct order.  Usually, after you acquire a familiar, you also draw up a contract of conduct, especially if the familiar is a creature such as Rafe, or my Miranda.  Standard procedure so there’s no untoward funny business.  Familiars are meant to partner with a witch, so if you haven’t established any ground rules then he is bound to follow any direct command you give him.”

“Great, now you tell me.”

I right the chair and sink into it, putting my head in my hands.

“Don’t worry, dear, he’ll come around.”  Deathwatch floats over to my side and puts a hand on my shoulder.  It goes through, and it’s cold as ice, but it’s a nice gesture.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.  You haven’t been stuck with him and his sunny disposition.”

“The universe chose to pair you two up for a reason, Magatha.  You both have something valuable to bring to this joining.  You’ll work your differences out, just you see.”

Deathwatch smiles and nods and just radiates sunshiny hope.

“How can you be so optimistic?  Especially when, you know.”

I don’t look at the body, but I make a vague, spastic gesture and hope it conveys what I mean to say.

“The universe doesn’t make mistakes,” he says.  “Everything happens for a reason, even if it’s not clear just yet.  I see every encounter and event as a learning experience.  Even being horrifically murdered.”

“That attitude is way too healthy, even for me.”

“And the universe brought us together as well,” he says.  “I have the inkling I’m still here to help you develop your craft.  After all, any witch who attracts a familiar such as a werewolf needs good training to keep up with them and whatever the universe has in store.”

I see zero chance that Rafe will ever come near me again, no matter what the universe thinks it had up its sleeve.  But a little company and a teacher, even from a recently dead guy, that doesn’t sound so bad.

“I guess I should probably call the cops so they can find your killer,” I say.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Deathwatch says.  “That werewolf will get what is coming to him, the universe-“

“Doesn’t make mistakes?”

“I was going to say, it has a way of distributing karma.  Besides, I’m not one to hold grudges.  Being dead is utterly fascinating.  Do you know I can walk through walls now?  I’m not going to waste the opportunity I have.”  Deathwatch winks.

“I’m torn between feeling nicely reassured and very disturbed.”

“Life is wonderful and full of contradictions.”

 

#

 

I bury Deathwatch Owens in his backyard beneath a weeping willow and the entire ordeal is too surreal to dwell on very hard.  Burying half a corpse while said corpse’s ghost follows you around chatting your ear off about cosmic theory and how it relates to the migration and evolution patterns of beetles is so far off the charts of explainability that it might as well be in a separate dimension.

I carve a marker for Deathwatch in the trunk of the tree when I’m done.  It takes almost an hour and riddles my palm with blisters.

“Should I, I dunno, say something?”

“Oh, don’t feel you have to on my account,” Deathwatch waves a hand.  “I do appreciate the thought, though.”

“Should I call anyone?  Any family or friends?”

“By now I’m sure they’ve heard,” he says with a vague wave.  “We should get back to your place, though.  You should take some of my research, and feel free to help yourself to my pantry.  Wouldn’t do for all that to go to waste.”

I feel bad for asking, but Deathwatch is so blasé about the entire situation that I go ahead anyway.

“You don’t happen to have a car, do you?”

“I do, I do.”

Deathwatch owns a nice and new Mustang with only a thousand miles on it and dust an inch thick on the exposed hood.  He disappears while I’m loading the car down with boxes of food.  He has enough for at least six months, but I can’t fit all of it in the car.  I take the best bits- all the canned food, the frozen meat (steak!  Actual steak!), and a bag of rice that stands as tall as my knees.  It’s enough to last me a six months.

I pack the frozen goods in an old ice chest and go back in for a last look around.

“You’ll need this.”

Deathwatch pops out of a wall.  Nearly gives me a heart attack.  I should probably get used to this, I think.  Deathwatch points to a piece of the wall.

“Tap twice and spin around counter clockwise,” he instructs.

I frown, but follow his instruction.  The wall wavers like a mirage and then opens up to reveal a hidden safe.

“My grimoire collection,” Deathwatch says.  “My death deactivated the security spells on the grounds and house, but I put some extra doohickeys on this part.  It’s never a bad idea to plan ahead.”

The safe is only big enough to house maybe one dictionary, but when I pull one book out there’s another in its place.  And another and another, until I have six thick and heavy books in a box.

“You wrote all of these?”

The books are all fancy leather bound ones with his initials carved on the front.

“Yes, I was a prolific writer.  Sometimes I spent days with pen in hand after an experiment.  My passion was dissecting magic, trying to figure out all of its secrets like where it comes from and how it’s all put together.  There’s quite a bit of interesting information in there.”

I look down at the books with a mixture of excitement and growing pressure.

“I’m going to be reading these, aren’t I?”

“Of course,” he says.

I get the books loaded up and lock up the house, although Deathwatch doesn’t seem to care one way or another.

“Onward ho!”  Deathwatch settles into the passenger seat with a pleased grin.

“My life is so strange,” I murmur and start the car.  It comes to life with a rumbling purr.  The sun is just cresting the horizon now.

The overgrown road circles around the property and then joins with the road Rafe and I came in on.  In the mirror, Deathwatch’s house and property shimmer like fish scales and then collapses on itself, green melting into golden grass, trees reversing into saplings and then seeds, until all that’s left is a dead willow tree and a dilapidated building that implodes in a puff of dust.

Deathwatch hums to himself and is generally unconcerned that his home is now entirely gone along with his body.

I gun the engine and shake it off.  Weird is apparently normal now.  


End file.
